


Misunderstandings

by thisstarvingartist



Category: Person Of Interest - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, Fusco may or may not be a little high, M/M, Misunderstandings, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, in which fusco is the catalyst, sorry not sorry for the stupid amounts of fluff, they're clearly idiots, tiny drabbles compilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:26:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2846060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisstarvingartist/pseuds/thisstarvingartist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It happened slowly, then all at once, when Harold fell in love with John; like the first flakes of snow in December followed by an avalanche of frozen ice.<br/>//<br/>John was a monster, and he knew that. He’d known it for a long time.<br/>//<br/>“I’ll get the first aid kit,” Harold said, rising and making his way to the back of the library.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misunderstandings

It happened slowly, then all at once, when Harold fell in love with John; like the first flakes of snow in December followed by an avalanche of frozen ice.

He also knew it was a deep, driving affection, far beyond physical desire—though to suggest that he didn’t find the other man attractive would be a blatant falsehood. There was just so much to adore about John Reese: he was audacious, kind, built from steel and sweet honesty and driven by a ruthlessness so impossibly pure Harold deigned for it to be nurtured, coveted; he had a smile so gentle for a man whose past was so fraught with tragedy.

He was like a sixteenth century painting, embodying beauty and harmony in its finest form, but woefully damaged after years of careless handling, brought nearly to destruction. Harold had, without even realizing it, become a conservator of that art. He’d given John a purpose, a reason to survive. Perhaps, even to live again. But his gratitude ran so deeply Harold imagined it bottomless; he knew that John felt indebted to him, and in such a relentless, selfless way that Harold knew if he asked, John would agree to anything. He would protect him, hold him, give his life to him on a silver plate—and he would sleep with him. That was almost a certainty; and it was one that terrified him.

Harold knew that John’s heart had been broken, stolen away by abusive partners and dark alleys, and that he did not believe that he would ever be able to love again. So, yes, he would give himself to Harold, forever isolate himself from the potential for happiness outside their library walls, and perhaps even be content. After all, he’d suffered so much woe, so much pain and anguish, it was entirely possible that John didn’t believe he would ever feel love again. It was possible that after everything, he didn’t want to.

But Harold would never ask so much of him. He couldn’t. He would never, not if he were threatened at gunpoint, betray John in such away. He couldn’t take advantage of John’s goodness, John’s light; they’d both worked so irrefutably hard to bring him away from the brink, and nothing— _nothing_ —on this earth would make Harold risk pushing him back over it.

//

John was a monster, and he knew that. He’d known it for a long time.

And when he met Harold, he knew that he would be used as a tool—an unfortunate means to a hopefully better end, a weapon to be utilized for the greater good of mankind; and he thought, well, it would be more fitting for him to die with twenty bullets in his chest than unconscious on the street with a bottle in his hand. He didn’t deserve such a peaceful death as that.

But Harold had given him much, much more than he’d deserved: he’d given him expensive clothes, a place of shelter—maybe even something he could one day call home—and a familiar voice in his ear that didn’t make him sick with anger or fear when he heard it. He’d given him freedom and safety, a set of luxuries he almost had forgotten existed. And Harold hadn’t stopped there.

He had given him a life. John found that, when he awoke in the morning, he actually looked forward to getting up. He was impatient to rise, to receive a new number, to save another life. He had purpose again, and this one… this one didn’t make him feel hollow and dark when he returned to sleep in the night. Harold had given John something he thought had long since died inside him, a feeling so animal he’d barely recognized it in himself: happiness.

Yes, he was grateful; thankful, endlessly. And he felt a profound respect and loyalty to Harold, a dedication he couldn’t begin to describe. But it was also so, so much more than that.

John was amazed by this man; this brave, selfless man, who willingly would exchange his life for a complete stranger, over and over, who fought against the limits of his own body to protect the people he loved, even when he could no longer touch them. This was a man who had scooped him up out of the gutters, cleaned him off, and later ran into a building full of guns to save his life even after he’d told him explicitly to stay away.

That’s was what really got to him, what really made him love Harold. The fact that he would never hesitate to side with good; he never considered the easy way out, never took a fight lying down. He never looked at a situation without wondering if what he was doing was _right_ and _fair_ for the people he would impact. This was a man who would risk everything to protect the innocent. And the less than innocent. And he had always treated John like he was someone important. Like he had the right to be protected.

But he was still a killer. His past would never change; and there wasn’t the shadow of a doubt that Harold would give himself away to a monster if he thought that’s what he had to do to protect the numbers. He didn’t. He’d already given John so much, he didn’t need to give his whole self as well.

Oh God, John would give Harold the world if he could. He adored this beautiful, broken man, in ways he couldn’t say. With emotions beyond anything he’d ever felt before, and that was why he would never tell Harold the truth about what he felt. Because he wanted—he _needed_ —Harold to be happy.

He could never be happy, being with a monster.

//

The feelings were never addressed, never recognized in civil company; Harold kept his softly pleading glances subtle and John fell asleep with his earpiece on, always. It was like a silent agreement, one neither of them even realized they’d made, because the truth was, they had no idea.

Until the day that it wasn’t John who came through the library doors with a gunshot wound, but Fusco, and Harold rose to his feet so fast he nearly knocked his chair backwards.

“What happened?” He asked, rushing to assist John in pulling Fusco to the couch, moaning, with one hand clutching at his shoulder.

“Number got a little touchy and ran out before I could grab him,” John said, leaning Fusco back. “This was the safest place to bring him. Relax, Lionel, you’ll be fine.”

“I’ll get the first aid kit,” Harold said, rising and making his way to the back of the library.

\--

“Where the hell are we?” Fusco groaned through the haze of antiseptic and sedative, now sprawled on his back on the couch with his gaze focused blankly on the ceiling. Harold spared a weary glance at John from his computers, fingers stilling momentarily on the keyboard.

John looked up from where he was kneeling on the floor, sponging up escaped drops of blood, with an apologetic grimace.

“Sorry about this, Harold,” John said. Harold waved him off, turning back to his computers.

“It was hardly your fault that Ms. Tannenbaum reacted so violently when you tried to assist her,” he replied. “However, it would be best to remove Detective Fusco from the premises as soon as he is able to stand.”

“You’re kickin’ me out?” Fusco said, looking distressed. “I didn’ do anything.”

“Relax, Fusco, I’ll take you home in an hour,” John told him, standing up from his work. He’d rolled his sleeves up and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, letting out a soft breath. Harold glanced over at him, taking in his lax form, before hurriedly going back to his work.

Fusco saw the look—though he caught it upside down—and gaped at him. “Holy shit, she was right,” he said, attempting to sit up and nearly rolling himself off of the couch.

“Easy there, Lionel,” John said, resituating the detective against his fidgeting protests.

“Look, I didn’t know this was your love nest, or I would have made wonder boy take me to the nearest hospital instead,” Fusco said insistently to Harold, plopping back onto the couch.

Harold’s eyebrows nearly hit the ceiling at the comment, and he and John shared shocked looks with one another.

“I don’t—” Harold stared at Fusco, mortified. “That’s a completely ludicrous insinuation, detective.”

“We work here, Lionel,” John insisted, “We don’t—I mean, we never have—”

“Then you’re a pair of morons,” Fusco informed him, sliding back against the couch. “Come on, glasses, you know you want that. And he clearly wants it too; so what’s the problem? With guys like you, you kinda gotta take what you’re given, you know, constantly being on death’s door and all that.”

“I—what?” Harold was looking at John, now, heart in his throat. No, John couldn’t know—he couldn’t find out how he felt, it was, it was horrible. Unfair. Outrageous. He couldn’t force himself on John, or let John think that he would—he _couldn’t._

John’s eyes had locked onto Harold in return, watching his every move like an animal cornered by a predator. Harold didn’t. No, he _couldn’t_. He couldn’t feel the same way John did; it was impossible. Insane. And if Harold found out… about how _he_ felt…

“If I worked in narcotics, I’d have to arrest you for getting high on each other,” Fusco said, then laughed at his own joke. No, it wasn’t funny, but he wouldn’t figure that out for hours. Harold and John were too stuck on each other to even realize that Fusco had spoken.

“John, you’re not…” Harold looked at John, helplessly, like his whole life had suddenly been exposed for the whole world to see. In a way, all of the important parts had.

“Harold…” John tried to speak, but he had no words.

He suddenly approached Harold, grabbing him and pulling him back behind the book stacks, out of sight.

“Please, John, understand that I would never ask you for anything,” Harold whispered frantically, pulling himself out of John’s grip. “Don’t think that you’re obligated to do anything for me; just your work with the numbers is more than anything I could ever need or ask for.”

“I know you deserve better than me,” John said, stepping away, “I don’t want you to think you have to do anything for me to get me to stay, Harold, please—”

“You’re not—wait,” Harold looked at him, at a loss. “What?”

“I wouldn’t—” John stopped himself this time, Harold’s words catching up to him. “… Harold…?”

“You’re not…” Harold’s eyes seemed to well, suddenly, with realization, and he faltered. “Oh god, _John_.”

“ _Harold_ ,” John’s voice cracked, and he stepped forward, gathering Harold into his arms. “You can’t love me, Harold, you’re too perfect, you’re too brilliant and kind and beautiful and better than me—”

“Oh, John,” Harold said again, choking on the words, fisting his hands in John’s collar, pulling him down for their lips to meet. They kissed, desperately, heedlessly, communicating everything they couldn’t with words, clinging to each other like they would die if they let go.

Because Harold needed to understand how much John needed him, needed him like air, because he’d given John a reason to be, and because he never flinched away from protecting people, and he was so innocent in a way John couldn’t even begin to comprehend, but it just made him all the more beautiful, all the more important.

And because John had to _know_ , he had to know how valuable he was, how wanted he was, that it didn’t matter what he’d done in his past, that what mattered was then and now, and his dedication to protecting the numbers, and his loyalty to the mission. And he wasn’t a monster, not anymore, because he _protected_ people, now; he kept them safe. And he was never truly a bad man, no, he was a good man who’d been forced to do terrible things, and if he really had ever been a bad man then he would never have felt regret the way he did, and oh god, John, he really had no idea how wonderful he was.

“Wow,” Fusco said, startling them from their intense embrace.

He was draped over the bookshelf, eyeing them blearily. “That’s so sweet I’m gonna throw up. Can I go home now?”

\--

The sky was cloudy and threatening rain, but so far the ground stayed dry, and Fusco walked through the grass with his free hand buried in his pocket, head down.

He placed the bouquet on the headstone, brushing his pudgy fingers along the familiar name engraved into the granite.

“You were right about them,” Fusco whispered, a hint of begrudging admiration in his tone. “They’re totally in love with each other. Idiots.”

He got to his feet, glancing up at the clouded sky, and turned away, walking out of the cemetery.

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaaaand I made the attempt at crushing your souls with that last bit. Sorry not sorry. I’m a shitty human being and I know it


End file.
